


Beached

by ironthoughts



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Emily Roundtree, Gen, Leonora Percival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:26:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironthoughts/pseuds/ironthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Speculation!fic: Before Corvo, Jessamine had a Protector whom she chose at twelve, as custom dictates. And of course something terrible happens to that Protector. Because something must have, for a non-Gristolan to be appointed successor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beached

**Author's Note:**

> Leonora Percival belongs to [Smaragdina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Smaragdina/pseuds/Smaragdina). Roundtree is my own.

1. _blue_

And at night, Roundtree spoke to Jessamine Kaldwin.

“It's done,” Jessamine said for the fourth time that conversation. Her fingers drummed an agitated beat on the table. “It's done, it's done and I don't care what Father or Hiram say, I am _not_ changing my mind and going through all of that again.”

“They both approve of your decision,” Roundtree reminded her. “Leonora's recommendation far outweighs any court distrust. As does mine.”

She raised her teacup to drink and winced at the smell. Sokolov was getting ever more creative ( _desperate,_ the courtiers whispered) with his antidotes these days, tossing together concoctions from things Roundtree firmly believed inedible. The effort was most likely useless—his new frown lines said as much—but Jessamine _believed,_ believed with all that earnest blooming zeal that drew affection to her like a cloak. Few could turn down a faith of Jessamine's strength; fewer still could accept it and remain self-serving. Perhaps by now the potential appointment to Royal Physician had even become Sokolov's secondary concern.

That was how Roundtree read it, anyway. She didn't peg him as the type to act out of pity.

Jessamine switched drumming her fingers for chewing the inside of her cheek. Roundtree nudged her foot under the table.

“Come now, don't tell me you're worried about Burrows's bleating. He can whine all he likes. The ceremony's good as done.”

“I know, I know,” Jessamine muttered, not paying attention. Her gaze drifted, then fixed on Roundtree's still-brimming cup. “Your medicine, Roundtree, you have to take it. He said a dose every night, no exceptions.”

Roundtree made a face. “I'm convinced you delight in me drinking this offal...”

“Don't joke about that. _Don't._ ”

“I'm still alive, 'Mine,” said Roundtree, sidestepping her charge's full name; in this context, it'd only be an accusation, and Jessamine looked stricken enough. “There's no dignity in grieving me while I breathe. Especially,” she added, gently as she knew how, “if one is inclined towards humor as a means of coping.”

Jessamine's mouth twisted. Her chin jerked up. “There's no dignity in humor when it's my fault.”

“You aren't the one who poisoned the darts. You aren't the one who fired them, either.”

“Yes, but it was still _me_ they wanted to—to—”

The word _kill_ trembled on Jessamine's tongue like a blister. Roundtree set down her teacup to take back the conversation. Jessamine didn't have to learn to say it, not today. Not now. In the back of Roundtree's head a familiar voice chided, _soft._

 _I know, Leonora,_ Roundtree thought. _Serves me right._

“'Mine, look at me. You're the Emperor's daughter. One day you'll be Empress of all the Isles. There will always be people who won't like what you do. And some of those will always try kill you.”

“But my own people, Roundtree!” Jessamine burst out. “My _own_ people! And poison, honestly, it's—” Disgusting. Dishonorable. Low-handed. _Foreign._ Another noble might've used any or all of those words, but Jessamine was royalty bred and born. All she did to finish the sentence was clench white-knuckled fists in her lap. “They must've thought we deserved it. They _must_ have or it doesn't make sense. But the costs of the bridge...that was Father's policy, not mine. I can't even _draft_ policy until I'm of age, it doesn't—why target us too? Why target all of us?”

Roundtree wanted to look away into her teacup, but she kept her gaze on Jessamine's face. “We don't always get what we deserve, 'Mine.”

“Well then.” Jessamine shook her head and straightened, shoulders squaring. “ _That_ is the first thing I'm changing when I'm Empress.”

“But of course,” said Roundtree wryly, if only to cover how her heart sank. She'd treasured Jessamine's bright naïveté when she was first appointed Protector—who in the court _hadn't_ adored Euhorn's precocious girl?—but now, with the end approaching... “Though I think you'll find my position will still exist.”

Jessamine's smile vanished. She looked down and fiddled with the brooch at her throat. “Even if that's true,” she said quietly, “it won't be you with me when I'm crowned.”

Roundtree frowned, very slowly. “You can't ban Corvo from your coronation, 'Mine.”

“I _know,_ Roundtree, Leonora would probably nail him to the throne first. It's just—it should be you there. It's supposed to be you. The first time I did this? The first time Father gave me all those names? I wanted you at my side. I chose _you_.”

Roundtree's throat closed. It was a moment before she could speak. How could it be possible to hurt like this, after the silence of her father's house? “And I promise you, then as now, the day you called me forward was the most important of my life. But now you've chosen Corvo—which I supported from the beginning, 'Mine,” she added, when Jessamine opened her mouth, “so even if you can't accept him as my successor, let him do my job when I'm gone. Tell me you'll allow him that much.”

And Jessamine...nodded. Kept her eyes on the table.

“Say, 'I promise, Protector Roundtree.'”

There wasn't even a flicker of the girl's usual irritation— _I'm not twelve years old anymore, Roundtree, Void and salt._ “I promise, Protector Roundtree.” Jessamine looked up and tried to smile. “Just like with the coat, right?”

Outsider's eyes, that blasted coat. Young empresses should never be allowed to design clothing. “In the spirit of our friendship, I'll formally will Corvo to wear it during your coronation instead.” Roundtree raised her teacup in a toast. “With my warmest and most relieved of blessings.”

“Careful, Roundtree. I can still—I can still bury you in it,” Jessamine blurted, looking half-mortified at herself even as she fought a grin. “Everyone will giggle at the funeral.”

“There you are, 'Mine,” said Roundtree approvingly. “You'll be cackling in graveyards again yet. Slap the coat on Corvo whenever you miss me and it'll be like I'm right there.”

“Roundtree!” Jessamine exclaimed, delighted and scandalized, and it was almost like old times again—just the two of them, briefly free of their titles, reveling in the refuge of open expression. “You know that wouldn't work. He doesn't look a thing like you.”

None of Jessamine's initial choices for Protector had. Roundtree hadn't failed to notice. “And that, my dear, can only work out in your favor. At long last you'll have a Protector you won't confuse for Lady Fairwright.”

Jessamine flushed and finally— _finally_ —laughed. “Shame on you, Roundtree. You swore you'd never talk about that.”

“Just like how I swore I'd never wear that coat, mm?” Roundtree smiled into her medicine as Jessamine gestured threateningly at her with the sugar spoon. “Now as I recall, I haggled three rows of ruffles off that coat for my figure. Seeing as you've just observed Corvo doesn't have that problem...”

“I'll put them back on. I'll have Madame Grayling cut the new design right now, so you can see Corvo in it before you—before.” Jessamine ducked her head abruptly and poured herself tea, holding onto her smile like a knife in her teeth. “It'll be wonderful,” she managed weakly. “You'll b-be giggling at your funeral.”

 

2\. _borrowed_

And in the evening, Protector Roundtree spoke to Hiram Burrows.

She hated the Spymaster. It was unprofessional and unbecoming, but she hated him all the same: his self-importance, his sneering disdain, his insulting conviction that coming from money somehow made them kin. She hated him so much, in fact, that she treasured the time lost speaking to him; the sheer spite generated from their meetings would keep her alive, Roundtree was sure, for an extra month.

“I cannot tell you how much this pains me,” said Burrows, sounding—as usual—like he was picking his nose. “It's been hard to accept that, as the Royal Spymaster, I am in fact partly responsible.”

“So long as you're more responsible in the future.” The harbor blazed tonight, overshadowing even the groaning silhouettes of whales being towed in for slaughter. Euhorn was burning the last of Dunwall's wooden fleet to make room for his new oil-powered steel monstrosities. Roundtree wondered if her child-self would have loved them as dearly. “I presume you've apprehended the remaining malcontents.”

“Yes. The ringleader's name will be mine soon enough. They will all be charged with treason of the highest order, of course, and, given the circumstances, the murder of a Protector of the Empire.” Burrows coughed. “Execution falls to the Royal Interrogator, but if you wish...”

Roundtree watched the mast of a frigate crack and topple. “My title, as you observed, is Protector.”

“Consider,” he said delicately, “the message that it would send.”

“That the Protectors kill in cold blood when it pleases them? That the crown endorses such a show?” Roundtree kept her voice dry; she wasn't so unprofessional that she'd let on she hated him, even now. “I wasn't aware we were going the way of Old Tyvia, Hiram.”

A stuttering silence; she could practically hear the man turning purple. Good. Let him choke for a while. If he wanted to think she resented him for his failure to catch a group of native terrorists—well, she wasn't about to correct him. Roundtree was of the opinion treason ran a lot higher in Dunwall than disgruntled nobles.

At least the paranoia generated by the attack had led Euhorn to request the other Isles for Protector candidates. Burrows had whined and cringed about the carpets being sullied by foreign footprints until Roundtree and Leonora had pointed out, flatly, that it was easier to intercept spies traveling oceans than those who'd been living amongst them for years. Naturally Burrows then all but begged Jessamine to focus on the Tyvian candidates, if only for their notable bloodlines: hedonists, all of them, to be sure, but against a commoner like Corvo Attano—!

It was almost worth dying to see the look on Burrows's face when Jessamine announced her decision. Unprofessional delight had its merits.

"Seeing as we may as well be Old Tyvia with these assassins about, I hope Corvo is the successor you and Leonora evaluate him to be," Burrows said. “Not that I cast his abilities in doubt, but...I regret you will not be with us much longer.”

Roundtree sighed. "Corvo flew through the City Trials like they were games at a county fair. The hand-holding he requires will be minimal." Idiot of a man didn't realize her turned back was a direct insult. "Do you wish me recite my recommendation, or are you going to discuss whatever you requested me here to propose?"

There was a stiff, starchy silence before Burrows said, "Very well. For the court's peace of mind, I must insist that you return to regular proceedings. It simply does not appear secure without you there, and Corvo's presence does not inspire confidence."

"Most of the court saw Corvo in the Trials. I think they feel suitably inspired.” Coward couldn't even say outright he didn't want a Serkonan in his precious government. “In any case, Leonora remains at Euhorn's right, and Corvo has shadowed the two of us long enough to know what he is doing." Roundtree held back a cough and tasted blood at the back of her throat. "The court doesn't need to see me hacking up my lungs in the throne room."

"Even so, to have Corvo represent our highest security when you are still fit—"

"Hiram," said Roundtree, and she felt blood stain her teeth, "I am not fit. I have not been fit for three weeks. One steps down than when one is no longer the best—a truth that you, in light of recent events, should consider."

A long silence. Then Burrows bowed (his coattails made the most excessive swish whenever he did) and his voice, when he spoke, was quiet. "My apologies, Protector Roundtree. I neglected to consider the dignity of your own house."

As if he had any right to ask after her house. A grasping man ashamed of his own line, that was all Hiram was—a snivelling krust of a man so self-invented that he thought his arrogance was good breeding.

It was going to be a problem one day. Outsider's eyes, who was she fooling. It was a problem already. Earlier this evening he had been eyeing the new ships in the harbor like they were his.

"I have not spoken with your father in some time," said Burrows. "Is he well?"

"As well as he can be." It was a conversation she hadn't bothered even to entertain; she knew their shared pride well enough to know how it would end. _Serves you right_ were the only words they had left for each other. "It won't affect his work."

"We will compensate him for your passing."

"You can dispense with that. He won't accept."

"Lord Roundtree is a respected member of Parliament. The courtesy should still be extended."

“Our line and service to the crown begins with the founding of the Empire, Hiram. This is not something to recompensed in coin.” It certainly was a matter of honor, though not in the way she'd have Burrows think. As fiercely as she hated her name, as deeply as she despised her house, she would not tarnish it in these final weeks by having Dunwall know its last members wanted each other dead. There was enough of her father in her blood that she understood the value of pride. "A speech before Parliament will suffice. Barring that, I'm certain he won't refuse any steps you might take to... _amend_ certain trade policies in his favor."

"I see.” There was a calculating note in Burrows' voice that made Roundtree want to roll her eyes. “A curious request, given your refusal of recompense."

“Recompense is a transaction. What I suggest is an exchange. A service for a service, Hiram. He will not be obliged to call you to a duel for that.” And her father _would_ challenge Burrows for turning her death into a pouch of coin, however much he'd support it. Oh that cruelty, that shared regret and rage: that to honor their name they had to honor each other. Such was the taste of Roundtree loyalty: bitter, bitter, bitter.

_Serves you right._

“I thank you for the notice,” says Burrows. “It would be unfortunate indeed if we had to shoot each other.”

Outsider's eyes. If her father did kill Burrows, that'd be yet another thing he'd have taken from her. “Consider it advice given in the course of duty." Roundtree repressed a wince as her insides spasmed. "I am here to safeguard the crown and those closest to it."

"You demonstrate remarkable fortitude in your circumstances, Protector. Not many even among our class could."

"Death is certain and universal," said Roundtree, looking at him for the first time in the conversation. "It is only proper to meet it."

She could tell he didn't care; he still lived in that odd place where money could buy all solutions. Roundtree wondered what it'd be like to watch him die.

It would probably be embarrassing.

 

3\. _new_

And in the afternoon, Roundtree spoke with Corvo Attano.

Corvo's temporary chambers were small but well-furnished, something Roundtree was glad to see. Jessamine had not been altogether cordial towards the Protector-to-be of late. Warmth would follow politeness, Roundtree hoped. It had to.

Getting into the room was a simple matter. She took in the layout and waited, counting down the seconds to when Corvo left training.

She didn't need to count long.

Roundtree kicked the door in as Corvo opened it, smacking his head and knocking him into the hall. As he staggered she flung the door open and yanked him back in by his collar, straight into a punch under his ribs that slammed him against the wall.

Corvo dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"Look through keyholes," said Roundtree mildly, walking over him to shut the door. "Or use Leonora's lesson on entering rooms. You're lucky I'm not her, by the way. They'd delay your ceremony for a broken nose."

The poor lad blinked up at her, eyes watering, barely able to focus on the crests on her sleeves. "Protector...Roundtree—?"

"Call me Emily and stay on the floor. You won't want to sit up for a bit." She pulled up the only chair in the room and sat with a grimace. Corvo lay obediently on the floor for a moment, then pushed himself up in a lopsided seat against the wall. "I'm ready," he said, despite his off-center stare. Roundtree shook her head.

"This isn't a full lesson. I'm here to talk, Corvo." Outsider's rotten eyes, she was in worse shape than she thought if the pain was this bad. She leaned forwards to rest her elbows on her knees, biting back a wince. How the mighty crumble away. "Professional matters and insights. I don't have much time left."

Corvo's gaze became startled, then ashamed; that perfect mask of stoic duty shattered like a dropped vase. "I'm not trying to replace you," he blurted. "I know you're her first and you al—"

"Corvo." He went quiet. "You are meant to replace me. You will replace me. Protecting Jessamine falls to you when I'm dead, however you or anyone else feels about it." Roundtree adjusted her position to ease her back and flinched when her ribs protested. "I'm sure you've already heard the complaints."

He looked away, a faint blush darkening his cheeks—so he did understand standard Empire better than he spoke it. A good advantage, what with the court treating him as practically deaf, but that lecture had to wait.

“You're not the only Protector to get a rough start,” said Roundtree. “The court nearly burnt itself down when I was appointed.”

Corvo frowned as if eyeing one of Leonora's razorwire traps. "But..." He hesitated. "You _are_ the Protector."

"I _became_ the Protector. Nobody's born one. Though I do admit it takes a certain loyalty.”

He nodded. “I was instructed to read the Protectors' histories. You...” Corvo hesitated, and Roundtree wondered how he would reinvent _sacrificial._ “You have a very distinguished line.”

“Mm, the Roundtree martyrs.” She smiled, as if it wasn't something everyone already knew. “Dying for the Empire's cause is a tradition in the family.”

“But you didn't volunteer yourself for the Trials. Your father did.” So went the official story, the one her father told at parties: oh, the tragedy of a daughter withdrawn from all chance of marriage! the devotion of a martyr's line even in peace! They'd settled the finer details in the light of his whiskey glass, shattered and glinting from where he'd thrown it at her when she told him she was taking the Trials.

“My father did volunteer me,” said Roundtree, which was true in the loosest sense. “But I wanted to become the Protector, more than anyone in the elite would have liked. Oh, they nodded when they saw my name in the Trials, but it was only one name among many—and then I passed the Trials. Placed in the top ranks.” Roundtree smiled and showed more than a few teeth. _Serves you right._

Corvo seemed to understand, because he smiled in return, more warmly and more bitterly than she had ever seen him. “They didn't expect you to succeed.”

“No. They most certainly did not.”

“But you did, and Jessamine chose you.” His voice softened with reverence when he said it—all the Protectors Roundtree knew did it when they spoke of the selection. Herself, Corvo.

Leonora.

“And Jessamine chose me,” Roundtree repeated. She remembered every detail of that day, even now. How she'd walked up the aisle. How she had knelt. How Jessamine had held her gaze with dark shining eyes, always and forever that beautiful child she'd one day die to protect. “I was never afraid I would weep in public, until then.”

Corvo blinked, evidently trying to imagine her teary-eyed. “I—” He looked away. “I'm ashamed, Protector Roun—Emily. It didn't feel that way to me.”

Roundtree wished, not for the first time, that she could have seen him grow into the role. "Devotion comes in many forms, Corvo. I don't think Leonora felt that way either.” Corvo got out only half a laugh before hurriedly checking for Leonora hiding in the walls. “What's important is that you know, as I do and she does, that being the Protector is not without cost. Giving up your life is hard enough when someone asks it, harder still when it has to be voluntary. And you didn't choose this for yourself. Serkonos sent you; here you are."

"I can do it," said Corvo, with an edge of pricked pride. Roundtree held up her hands in placation.

"I don't mean just your literal life. You give up choices about your life too—whether you can go back to your family again, for one. Whether you'll ever have a family of your own, for another. You give up everything you have because Jessamine has to come first, from the day you get the title to the day you die. If you're both trapped in a fire and a child screams for your help, you ignore her because Jessamine comes first. If you're accompanying her in a procession and you see a figure in a window about to jump, you pass them by because Jessamine comes first." Pain lanced through her abdomen; Roundtree took a slow breath. "And it will happen, more times than you'll want to remember or count, and it's these things no one warns you about when you put on the fancy coat. At least in my experience."

Corvo stared at the floor between his knees, suddenly looking very, very young, and Roundtree felt her heart pang. Was it possible she had ever been his age? Had she looked like that after the procession? Should she tell him Protectors crumble to their knees and weep, but only when no one hears?

"I'm sorry I won't be here when it happens for you,” she said. “Leonora is the better teacher, but not the gentler one."

Corvo looked up at her, and the way he tried to smile was just like Jessamine's. “You'll be proud of me, Emily. I promise that.”

There was no such thing as fairness; Roundtree knew this as she did her own name. But there was _rightness_ in the world, and it was not right—it was not right and so bitterly possible that she should die now and leave these children alone.

"Then I look forward to our remaining time together. There's a lot I have to tell you." Roundtree gave him a wan smile. "Now, I am aware this is your room, but I would appreciate it if you allowed me a moment. Catch my breath."

Corvo nodded, suddenly not meeting her eyes, and left, opening the door as Leonora taught him on the way out. Roundtree sat for a long while, eyes closed, trying not to think.

She was going to need a cane soon.

 

4\. _old_

And at dawn, Emily spoke to Leonora Percival.

The harbor was beautiful in the sunrise.

Roundtree swallowed blood as she watched it, hands tight on her cane. Sokolov had confirmed only days before that she'd reached the last stages. The end would come when her flesh started peeling.

He'd offered his services in preparing her body—voice lowered, gaze averted, hands busy. Those hands had brought and would continue to bring life to blotches of paint; a disintegrating corpse, Roundtree suspected, would pose no challenge. When Sokolov made his offer Jessamine's face had been a terrible thing to see: wretched and beautiful, infinitely older, and it had suddenly struck Roundtree how she would never see Jessamine any older than this. It had taken everything in her to not look away, and imagine Jessamine years from now. Wise, she hoped. Beautiful, she knew. Alive, she prayed, always alive.

Jessamine had been the one to look away, as was right; the Protector could never stop watching. And Roundtree had said nothing. How could she explain without hurting her charge further?

There were so few choices left to her now, at the end.

"You remember," Roundtree rasped, "when Jessamine chose me?"

Beside her, Leonora Percival inclined her head. Euhorn Kaldwin's Protector. The one the assassins missed.

"I walked down the aisle. Knelt on one knee. Bent my head and swore—to my dying breath—" Roundtree choked, caught the breath in her kerchief. A dark stain blossomed from the cloth to her glove. "I don't think I did enough."

"You did everything you could. I'll keep them in line."

"Ah, there's—I promised Jessamine Corvo would wear Grayling's coat at her coronation, as she originally designed it. With the extra ruffles and—hech—in a deeper shade of blue. If you could—"

Leonora's gaze was flat, but—like a true professional—she said with perfect blankness, "I'll ensure it."

"Thank you. Tell him, when he puts it on—no more choices. From me."

The corner of Leonora's mouth lifted. "Consider it done."

Roundtree smiled weakly, then turned to scrub blood from her teeth, wincing when she felt them give in her mouth. Leonora had been right; they should have done this in her own room. Her window was high enough and the current below strong, but she'd had to see the harbor one more time. Dunwall had risen on that harbor, won wars from that harbor. Her family had risen and won with it. It was only appropriate she come here.

She also didn't want her last memory of the place to have Burrows in it.

"I threw it all away," Roundtree murmured.

Leonora glanced over.

"When I swore. Everything my father gave me, everything my name handed over, I—threw it away. I wanted my life to be something that didn't come free, I wanted to earn it, I wanted to deserve—" A hacking fit seized her and doubled her up. Blood spattered the railing. "—hghh—Leo-nn—help—"

Her legs buckled and Leonora caught her, held her so that the coughs didn't wrack her. Gradually she eased her back into a standing position and helped Roundtree brace herself on the rail. "Leonora, this is—" She caught her breath, shivered. "This isn't how I wanted to die."

"Did you expect to die well?"

"Quietly. Quickly. Nai...naive, I know." She opened her eyes. Dunwall, oh Dunwall. Before she wanted to be the Protector she'd wanted to be a helmsman, back when she still dared to think her name was something she could flee, with the wind in her hair and a thrill in her heart, chasing after the long line of horizon. "Thank you, Leonora," Roundtree croaked. Leonora lowered her head.

"It's the least I can do, Emily."

She leaned on the rail, head dangling. The wind was soft on her hair. Dunwall, the city of her father and her father's father, her father's father's father, so still and beautiful in the sea-wreathed dawn. Could there ever be anything so heartbreaking as home? "I wanted to deserve something," mumbled Roundtree. "And I did. Whatever it must've been. He said so."

"Burrows?"

"Lord Roundtree." She drew a shallow breath. "' _Serves you right._ ' Whatever it was...I sought something, I earned it. Even if I never ran when he dared me, even if I never raised a hand to him. I guess I earned something so well he had to look me in the eye and admit it." Roundtree chuckled, and blood bubbled on her lips. "Serves me right,” she wheezed.

And that was the closest she would ever get to admitting she thought herself a coward.

Leonora looked at her, eyes piercing. "You still spoke to him. Alone."

"Bah. Some tyrant in my youth told me to be thorough."

Leonora's mouth curved in a smile. "Well then."

"Don't look so smug. I'm only okay with it because he—broke his favorite whiskey glass throwing it after me." Roundtree raised her head with effort and looked out over the harbor. "Second—of a pair. Did you know he broke the first one...throwing it at me, when I entered the Trials? Had to get the second one.” She coughed, fitfully. “Thorough."

"But now you're glad. You earned what you wanted, then?"

"I...I guess. A blade in my hand, the skill to wield it, and the freedom to use it and suffer as I choose..." Roundtree straightened at the rail and took the dagger from her sleeve. It'd been the first short blade she received as Protector, and now the last she would ever draw. "I never thought I would do this," she said hoarsely. "But there has never been a better time to leave—"

She drove the knife up under her ribs, straight through her liver, and cut sideways.

Four months ago Roundtree could have leapt the rail in her sleep. Now Leonora had to help her up, had to steady her as she balanced on her knees on the ledge. The poison had undone her body like paper lace in water—she would break apart in the waves, there would be nothing left. And she was bleeding out faster than she'd anticipated. She could feel the blood pooling in her gut. It took everything she had not to let gravity do the work.

Emily Roundtree kept her eyes on the horizon and tipped forwards.

She did not think of the ocean below her, or the sky above, or the great whales whose blood would mingle with hers as the slaughterhouses drained them dry. She did not think on her life or the air rushing past. She did not think on what she could have done.

She thought of Leonora, standing at the rail, hands firm on Jessamine's arms. She fainted over the rail, she knew Leonora would say. She began to cough; then she went over the rail. No, Jessamine, she would have felt nothing. Sokolov is right: there won't be a body. We met to discuss Corvo's training regimen. She looked out over the harbor. Her eyes were on the sunrise and she thought of you, Jessamine, as the wind cried in her ears—Jessamine, Jessamine, when you hear of me, don't mourn too long, don't grieve too deep. Grant me that much, just this much, just this much here in Dunwall: oh Dunwall, can you see it, will you see it, so wretched and beautiful in the morning light—

Jessamine, may you live well in Dunwall

Jessamine, may you live long in Dunwall


End file.
